


Sensory Appeal

by lentilchip



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Fingering, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sort Of, a bit of it anyway, aka Ken-doll Crotch but they make it work through sheer dedication and horniness, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-24 04:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15622257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentilchip/pseuds/lentilchip
Summary: A continuation to my first hankcon endeavour. I can't get these two out of my head. Anyway: thigh-fucking.





	Sensory Appeal

"You know you can just take him to one of those fancy, high-tech machines that does that for you, right?"

"And _you_ know I don't mind being the fancy, high-tech machine doing it."

Hank is leaning on the doorframe of his bathroom, with his hands deep in the pockets of his old bathrobe and the beginnings of a frown on his face.

On the floor of the bathroom, Connor is kneeling in front of the tub, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands buried in the soapy suds on Sumo's fur. Sumo himself was looking pleased as punch.

It's Sumo's bath day, and for some reason, Hank didn't feel very good about it.

"I could at least... hand you the bottles or something," he tries, wringing his hands uselessly in the matted old robe.

"This is the quickest, easiest and cheapest option, Hank. And," Connor leans down to scratch beneath Sumo's dripping chin. "The least stressful one, too. You've seen how he reacts to the vacuum cleaner." He cranes his head to look at Hank, a look of pure sympathy on his face.

Hank grumbled. He didn't exactly mind the help. Or how Connor had (technically) beaten him to the task. He didn't even mind being woken up by the sound of the shower running, on their first free Sunday in many weeks to come.

Hank didn't even mind all that. He just felt antsy. And he didn't know why.

"I think Sumo's happy whichever one of us is doing the washing, to be honest." Connor turns to Sumo again. "Isn't that right?"

Sumo, the traitor, boofs happily.

Still, Connor had a point. As long as the work got done, it didn't really matter who did it. No matter whose dog it was. Or which one of them had used to do it before. It didn't matter, really. And yet-

Hank is pulled out of his mood by the snap of a plastic bottle cap and the loud squirt of Connor squeezing a glob of high-grade dog shampoo into his hands. He lathers them up and brings them to Sumo's big head, rubbing behind his ears.

Hank sighs, maybe a little too exaggeratedly. It'd do him better to stop hovering around them like an antsy matron, at least. 

There's a loud _clang_ heard from the pipes as the stream of water stops. Connor gets up on his feet and moves to help Sumo out of the tub, cooing encouragingly as the dog's big paws set gingerly on the rug, one by one.

Hank makes a point of looking the other way, a undeniably stubborn attempt at revenge on a damn dog, of all things.

Sumo, of course, doesn't notice. He takes a couple of wet steps, water dripping everywhere as he goes. Meanwhile, Connor reaches back and picks up a bright blue, paw-print towel reserved for dog paws and -fur only.

Then, Hank sees Sumo shift in the corner of his eye, and it takes a second for him to react.

"Hey, you gotta be quick with that, or he's gonna-"

His brief attempt at canine training comes a second too late. In one quick move, Sumo's shaken himself off with a newfound vigor, water spraying everywhere.

Hank has enough reaction time to step back and out of the door, shielding himself partly with the sleeve of his robe.

Connor, on the other hand, is definitely caught in the splash radius.

Hank can't hold back his burst of laughter as he assesses the damages. In seconds, Connor's been completely drenched; his usually impeccable hair lying plastered at his forehead, shirt soaked through to the skin, complete with a look of pure shock and indignation on his goofy face.

Adamantly, Connor makes to reach for Sumo again, towel in hand, but stumbles as the wet culprit trots out of the bathroom, deeming himself dry enough by his own standards.

Hank dodges Sumo on his way out, still chuckling. "Oh, he got you real good. Think that auto-dry-off feature of yours can fix that for you?"

Connor says nothing, which somehow makes it even funnier. Hank tries his best to stifle his snorts, but he's sure Connor's delicate audio sensors can pick up on _'schadenfreude'_ faster than Hank can spell the damn word. Laughing is easy. It breaks through the tension on Hank's part by a little bit. Still, he wasn't all that sure if Connor found it as funny. So he settles on being at least a little bit helpful.

"Aw, don't pout. Here, catch." He snags a towel off of the hangers closest to the sink and throws it in Connor's direction. He makes no move to grab it, and it lands feebly on top of his head. Connor's eyelids are fluttering rapidly, the way they do when a reference search stalls, or a factoid doesn't match the record. Hank can't help but to think it adds to the drowned cat-look.

"Not a very nice 'thank you' for a bath, huh." Hank peeks his head out the bathroom door, in Sumo’s general direction, to (half-heartedly) shout: "Bad dog, Sumo."

There's a forlorn _woof_ heard from the living room.

Looking back into the bathroom, Hank realises that Connor still hasn't moved to towel himself off. Feeling a bit guilty, he moves to sit at the lid of the closed toilet seat, reaching for the dripping android.

"C'mere, kid." Hank grabs the towel to pull Connor a bit closer, only by an inch. He holds Connor’s head between his palms, and begins the process of toweling his hair dry.

"I'm not a kid, Hank." Connor's reply at the pet name is as instantaneous as it is familiar. "I'm modeled after a grown man. While my components might be young, in a sense, no part of my mind is."

Hank chuckles, but decides not to go for their usual back-and-forth. Instead, he keeps on ruffling Connor's hair with the towel. There's something familiar about the motion, and he catches himself humming softly for a brief moment, before cutting himself off.

Then, he feels Connor's fingers at his wrist, thumb dragging a wet trail against the sunspotted skin. Involuntarily, he shivers at the touch. Connor says nothing.

Hank braves a quick glance at Connor's LED, a helpful cheat-sheet at time when his mood is too cryptic. It flickers a steady blue; calm apprehensiveness, processing, wondering. The towel almost snags on the flashing loop as Hank's hands keep on working, a little slower now. He drags it over a mole on Connor's cheekbone. Holds his cheek through the motion, inadvertently. Counts his lashes as they're clumped together with moisture.

Suddenly, there's a mood.

Briefly, Hank considers the circumstances of said mood, how they'd otherwise qualify as dampening in all senses of the word; him on a toilet lid, Connor completely soaked, both of them sitting around in the remains of a doggy disaster. Then Connor shifts justs so, water droplets dripping from his telltale curl and slowly, enticingly running down his cheek, trickling down to bead at his bottom lip. Hank promptly forgets anything he'd been thinking of then and there.

The days after they'd first slept together hadn't been as awkward as Hank had feared they'd be. He'd half expected a barrage of self-berating and guilt, if he were to trust the usual workings of his crap brain. Instead, things had felt very... comfortable. If anything, it was a "natural development to a relationship that was supportive, respectful and affectionate both inside and outside of professional environments". Or at least that's how Connor had put it, encouragingly.

The familiar intimacy-part of it had progressed at a calm, steady pace. Things had been chaste; a few lingering touches, looks that lasted a few beats too long, and slow kisses that always came to a stop right before they got too languid, too heated.

It was enjoyable, at least. Manageable, for the most part. And if Hank's own need ever got too pressing, he dealt with it in the privacy of his own solitude.

Hank didn't want to rush things. Still, even though sex didn't work that way, he couldn't stop feeling like he had a debt in need of repaying. He could vividly remember the heated promises he'd made back then, with Connor's wet mouth around him, hurried whispers bouncing off the bedroom walls. He knew he'd have to make good on his promises of a part two happening, and probably soon.

His hands had stopped moving now. Connor’s hand was holding Hank’s wrist proper. All he could hear was the slow dripping of the faucet, Connor’s soft, simulated breathing, and his own pulse thrumming in his ears.

And when Connor shifts just so, the soaked shirt fabric giving way to hint at the wet skin beneath, begging to be kissed, Hank thinks he's just had about enough testing of his fortitude for one morning. He pulls back his hand, Connor's fingers falling away to grip at the towel instead. The blue light is whirring, whirring still.

"Hank," Connor starts, and the soft timbre as his name falls off that tongue is as damning as ever, as well as the thing that finally makes Hank get up, knees protesting at the sudden movement.

He clears his throat to think of something to say, but draws a complete blank. If anything, whatever he'd come up with would help make the situation even more awkward than it undoubtedly already was.

So instead, Hank settles for (an attempt at) an amicable yet finishing pat on Connor's head, and something like an affirming grumble. He doesn't look at Connor's face as he stalks out of the bathroom, fearing what might happen if he looked into those damn eyes again.

Hank’s mouth was dry, his hands still wet from the towel. He had the feeling the long-awaited part two was edging closer. Anyone with half his insight (and access to his search history) would know that the bookmarked threads on android-human-relations carried with them a meaning much more charged than mere politics.

And if they both kept falling into cheap comedy knockoff wet-T-shirt contests like this, Hank knew his resolve would die down faster than Sumo could shake off a tub's worth of soapy bathwater.

_____

It's a Sunday off, and neither Hank nor Connor have much to do in terms of actual, productive work or chores. It would be a welcome respite during any other week, seeing as how their workload had close to doubled with all the never-ending rewriting and readjusting of the android rights jurisdiction happening lately. They'd done some great work together, but it'd been wearing them both down. Or really, Hank could only speak for himself, but he knew late hours would leave anyone wrung dry, even androids.

Today however, a day off simply means he's got no cure for his antsiness, no mindless task to channel it into. It just doesn't die down. He attempts to busy himself in other ways, stubbornly set on going solo for the day, leaving Connor to his own devices. Not ignoring him, no, just- doing things without him. Or trying to, at least.

He takes Sumo for one of their long walks, despite the gray skies and Connor chiming in with the day's (far from promising) weather report. Sumo however, couldn't seem to muster the same optimism as Hank. Instead, he finds himself bested as the lumbering idiot plops down in protest at the end of their block, making no move to get up in any direction save for the one leading straight back home.

He does the small pile of dishes by hand instead of chucking it all in the dishwasher, for once. Once finished, he spends the following hour making up excuses just to create more dirty dishes - cleaning out Sumo's bowls, his own tooth brush mug, even the damn plate he keeps his keys in. He even pours one of those freaky-looking thirium drinks in Connor's favorite cup, only to put it away in the fridge after Connor's polite declination.

He goes through his records with the intention to sort them properly, a task he'd postponed long enough he'd half expected cobwebs clinging to the LP sleeves. Begrudgingly, he realises a certain someone has already beaten him to it, cataloguing his collection after year and genre alike. Hank has half a mind to put them all out of order, but decides against it.

When evening finally rolls in, Hank has switched back to his stretchy T-shirt and boxers and back to his favorite spot on the couch. When he's flipped through all the TV channels for the fourth time in a row, Connor steps in, like he always does.

"Is everything alright, Hank?" comes Connor's voice through the garbled remix of news reports, football referees and online gambling adverts.

Hank keeps on flicking through the channels. "Just peachy," he grunts, perhaps pushing the buttons harder than he needs to.

"Oh alright, I'm just checking in on you." Hank takes note of the beginning of mock-innocence in Connor's voice. "It's just, according to this evening's TV-guide, nothing new has come on in the time it's taken for you to go through all 57 of our channels." Hank can hear Connor’s small smirk as he speaks, can picture in in front of him, even. "If you're quick, you can catch the evening news by your ninth round."

Hank grumbles again and chucks the remote in the corner couch pillow, leaving the TV idle on a rerun of an old makeover program.

"Do you want to cook something together?" Before Connor's even finished the question, he's fished out one of Hank's old aprons and tied it around his waist, finishing with a neat bow in the front. His eagerness and quick work gets all of one raised eyebrow out of Hank, still seated on the couch.

Since Connor wasn't a domestic model, he had no deeper knowledge of housekeeping save for the basics of regular tidying up and how to work a washing machine. Still, with all his newfound purpose, he seemed to find a certain pleasure in learning things from scratch, rather than instantly downloading a script or program for it. 

Cooking had turned out to be one of his latest conquests. The entire thing was charming to Hank, who personally had stopped seeing the fun in cooking when it was only for one person. Still, he felt Connor's work had started paying off right around their fifth night of the same four-bean ragu, which hadn't come out over-salted or slightly burned at the bottom that time.

Right now, though, Hank could do without. "Nah, I’m good. Got some leftovers to heat up."

Whatever Connor thought to say died out beneath the shrill, excited voices from the TV.

"Is there anything I could do for you?" comes Connor's voice again. Beneath the first rush of annoyance, Hank can feel something else tugging at him, chiding him for being his old, unfair, grouchy self. Stubbornly, he ignores it. He'd mastered the act at this point, anyway.

So instead, the annoyance wins. "You don't gotta _do_ anything for me, Connor. It's our day off, means we get to spend it doing whatever we want." Hank leans back on the couch. "Go do whatever."

He hadn't heard Connor's footsteps moving closer, but when he’s standing in front of Hank, he's got his full attention. Somehow, Connor managed to look real serious despite having the phrase 'I cook as good as I look' plastered across his chest.

"OK seriously Hank, what's the problem?" Connor's tone of voice is stern, and Hank can't help but to flinch at it. "It's been like this all day, and I can't begin to figure out why. "

Hank says nothing, pulling distractedly at a string on the couch cushion. 

"It's my job to be perceptive, but you can't expect me to just sit here and guess at what's bothering you until I finally get it right. At the very least, it's not fair of you to take it all out on me."

Shame grips at Hank again, properly this time. It's a firm, sinking weight in his gut, and cold heat spreading through his chest. It's tight. Even if he had a reply good enough to give, he wouldn't be able to say it out loud.

"Or we don't have to do this right now, I guess." Connor's voice is sharp now, his features a firm mask, fixed in a look he usually reserves for detective Reed's bothersome tirades. "I could just go 'do whatever' until you're ready to actually talk to me."

Something inside Hank breaks, then.

"Wait, Connor-", Hank starts on a heavy breath, almost pleading.

He falls silent again. He is hyper-aware of everything happening around him. For a moment, he thinks of what it must be like for Connor, with his quick mind having to keep up with the unrelenting stream of input and factoids from his surroundings, constantly. The idea is exhausting.

Then, he feels the couch dip down under Connor's weight.

”Then talk.”

Hank wrings his hands, scratches his knee. Inside his head is a barrage of emotions, somehow, illogically, so overwhelming that it makes him numb. He’s afraid of what would come out if he even began to try to talk. Connor seems to pick up on it, with he way his expression shifts into one of concern.

Hank can feel something recoil inside him, reflexively. They'd spend enough time together at this point for Hank to recognise the preludes to one of his usual pity parties, and he wasn't in the mood for one right now. He blinks, slowly, slow enough to register the light of the TV through the skin of his eyelids.

"Is it alright for me to touch you, Hank?"

He can't help but to glance at Connor then. When Hank sees his firm but understanding look, the knot of anxiety in his stomach starts to uncurl, cautiously. Hank feels himself nod, finally, and then Connor's hand is back on his wrist again, like it had been this morning. It's warm.

"What's wrong? Talk to me."

A thousand thoughts roar through Hank's head at that. He's ashamed, frustrated, remorseful, fond, embarrassed, upset, and so fucking pitiful. He wants a drink. A hug. Anything.

"I'm sorry," Hank manages finally. "I'm being mean and pissy and unfair, and I'm sorry."

A bit more meekly than he'd like to admit, he moves his hand a tiny bit, until he's returning Connor's grip properly, their fingers intertwined.

"Do you want to help me understand, then?"

Hank shifts a little, but Connor's grip remains. Almost grounding him, in a way. "It's been a tough week, I suppose. Could be you're stressed out by-"

"It's not just work. Or you. Or, well," That wasn't entirely true. Connor seems to pick up on his hesitation, quirking one eyebrow in response.

"I'm just- it's been a long day. Week. Lots to uh, think about." When he tries to put it in words, he suddenly feels silly. A silly old man with silly old mood swings. His other hand flies up to rub at his neck, like he's wringing away a muscle knot. "I've just been restless, I guess. Lot of, hm, energy, nowhere to put it 'cept for being.... grouchy. Sorry."

The look Connor shoots him is enough to fix him in place. Still, there's a hint of cheerfulness in his eyes, even though his tone is a bit restrained. "I could tell. Not to say you're not efficient, usually, but today was," Connor stops for a beat. "Intense, even for you."

Hank’s embarrassment goes straight to the tip of his ears, turning bright red. He swallows thickly. He can feel himself edging closer to that one thing he didn't thought he'd bring up just yet. Since he's already started the damn thing, he settles on barreling through it all in one go.

"Well, there's not just that, there's also this-" He free hand moves to the hem of his boxers, picking away at a piece of lint that's not there. "I feel like we should- at some point, talk about... stuff. Between us, I mean," he adds as an afterthought; as if it wasn't implied, as if it hadn't been the taxidermied elephant in the room for days on end now.

A silence stretches out between them. Hank can hear his own pulse thudding dully in his ears, is sure Connor can feel it with the way his thumb is stroking across the tendons of Hank's wrists. Then, Connor's voice cuts through.

"What kind of 'stuff'?"

Hank's head whips up at that, unable to mask the look of surprise on his face. He's met with the calculating gleam in Connor's eyes, the teasing hint of teeth in his grin. _Oh, alright_ , Hank thinks. _He picks this exact moment to play dumb._

"Don't act like you don't know." Hank blusters. "I mean how we're- The last few days, since we... things have been, a bit tense, is all."

” _'Tense'_ how?"

Connor seems set on pulling the words straight from the horse's mouth, as usual. Briefly, Hank sympathises with the countless suspects that had fallen under Connor's harsh scrutiny during all those long interrogations at the precinct. Hank can't do anything but to swallow again, painfully slow. 

"I know said I wouldn't guess, but," Connor looks up at Hank through his lashes. "If I say I'm helping you find the right words, that'd be a different deal, right?"

Hank feels like a deer that's just scampered right in front of a semi-truck. Still, he nods lamely, dreading the worst. Connor takes the cue.

"While the beginning of the physical part of our relationship was successful at first, right now it seems to have... well, halted." Either Connor doesn’t pick up on Hank's pained expression, or he plain ignores it and barrels on.

"You touch me, you kiss me, and yet you're adamant on stopping before the... 'good stuff', as they say. I don't mind adjusting to your tempo, but I sometimes get the sense that you're holding yourself back. Would you like me to explain why I think that is?"

It takes all of Hank's willpower not to jump back and hide behind one of the couch pillows. Instead, Hank makes a noncommital grunt. He has the feeling Connor would've prattled on either way, just to revel in Hank's reaction to it.

"My presence, my actions, my appearance, still very much invoke a physical response in you." Connor seems to have given up any pretense of disguising his smugness, now. "And you never get to act on it, not fully. My reference material indicates - and forgive me if I'm being crass here - a case of good old fashioned sexual frustration."

Hank's mouth immediately goes dry, and he feels a splotchy blush creep up on his cheeks.

"Did I get it right?" Connor tilts his head sardonically, still very much apt at seizing the right moments for him to be a little brat. Hank's free hand is clutching at his face now, doing a poor attempt at hiding the no doubt embarrassed look on his face.

Ultimately, he settles on showing his hand. Or rather, putting it all on the table after rounds and rounds of accidentally flashing every single one of his cards at anyone who'd bother to look.

"Yeah," he croaks behind the palm of his hand. "Right on the money." His voice comes out smaller than he meant it to be.

In the back of his head, he remembers one of Connor's lectures on how to read the tells of people's faces; to track eye movements, blown out pupils, reddening cheeks and about everything Hank suspected was happening to him right this fucking moment. Embarrassment creeps up on him about the same time he feels his neck start to sweat.

As if he'd been able to read Hank's thoughts right then, Connor's eyes scans over his features, and he chuckles, low enough that Hank can barely hear it.

"I didn't want to be the one to point it out," he smirks, looking utterly pleased with himself. "Probability dictates I would've been able to figure it out at some point anyway, but it helps when you're being straightforward with me, Hank."

Hank is sure his face is tomato-red at this point. 

"I'd be lying if I told you I haven't been dealing with the same brand of emotions, on my end." Connor says it so casually, like it's no big deal he just admitted to being blue-balled for days on end. Hank makes a strained face as Connor's hand travels up his forearm while he keeps talking, smiling softly. "I wasn't waiting for you to make a move as much as I was... respecting your pace."

"Well... We could,” The knot in Hank’s gut seemed tinged with something other than nerves, now. He chews his lips, almost spluttering as he barrels on. ”...do something about that, I guess. "

If Hank had ever questioned the amount of 'game' left in his old bones, he's sure the last ten minutes had ultimately helped declare it dead and gone.

Still, it seemed be working on someone. Connor’s fingers on Hank's wrist are carding through the gray hairs there now, tracing slow circles ever so lightly. Hank feels it mirrored in the shiver running along his spine.

"What do you want to do, then, Hank?" Connor’s voice is playful, but with a hint of something more heated behind it.

Hank knows Connor can't be this clueless. A part of him suspects that Connor likes to play up on the innocence just to watch Hank squirm. If that was the case, it sure as hell was working.

He takes a moment. Then another one. Then he goes for it.

As if completely anticipating his moves, Connor leans into Hank's kiss almost at the instant he's initiated it. It's a soft press of lips at first, like getting to know each other again, then Hank turns his head to deepen the kiss, at Connor’s hummed encouragement.

The angle is a little strained, with Connor twisting his upper body to lean into Hank. Connor doesn't seem to mind, but it isn't long until Hank makes a noise and reaches over, pulling Connor into his lap. In an instant, Connor's hands are locked behind Hank's neck, stroking at the hairs there, gripping tight.

This time, when Connor parts his lips on a soft moan, inviting Hank's tongue in, Hank doesn't stop. When he feels the fabric of Connor's jeans rub more intently at his own trembling thighs, he doesn't make up an excuse about paperwork needing to be sorted. When he undoes the old apron and chucks it away to pull up Connor's shirt, sliding a hand across the smooth panes of his abdomen, feeling it twitch under his touch, he doesn't run away.

And when Hank's hands finally ventures down to cup Connor's ass, he doesn't expect the eagerness with which Connor responds, pushing back into his grip with a loud gasp. Hank hears more than he feels his back pop. The couch really wasn't the place he'd imagined they'd be doing this.

Before Hank has mustered the mental fortitude to ask, he hears Connor's voice heavy against his ear.

"You wanna take this someplace a little more comfortable, handsome?" He leans back to meet Hank's wet gaze, cheeks dimpling adorably.

Hank remembers the line, undeniably verbatim from that very first night together, so strange now rolling off of Connor's lips. Somehow it goes straight to his dick. His head is swimming as he blinks at Connor, feels his kiss-swollen lips throb and Connor's eternally short-trimmed fingernails scratching pleasantly through his wiry beard.

A bit too eagerly, he manages a nod, head almost lolling with the effort.

____

The bed is creaking as loud as before, sheets bundled around them, bedlights dimmed to a soft, bluish color. Connor’s jeans are folded at the bottom of the bed, Hank’s t-shirt chucked into some corner of the room.

This time, Hank's the one on top.

Back when they'd first kissed, Hank had had a bit of trouble adjusting to the strangeness of it all. It felt like kissing always did; wet, warm, soft, all that jazz. Save for the fact that it didn't... taste much of anything.

Now, after hours of kissing, and with the way Connor seemed to key in on all the things that made Hank’s knees buckle, fast learner as he was, Hank found that he couldn't get enough of it.

Especially with Connor shifting deliciously beneath him, simulated breathing synced with Hank's own huffs and puffs. His thick fingers struggle a little with undoing the buttons on Connor’s shirt, but the eager encouragement on Connor’s part brought his mind of off it.

He catches his teeth on Connor's lower lip and revels in the wet groan that earns him. Then he rumbles in turn as Connor’s nimble fingers finds his right nipple, pinching at it playfully. Hank can feel himself filling out in his boxers. The words _hair trigger_ plays on a loop in the back of his mind.

Hank then promptly snaps out of it at the firm press of Connor's palm against his crotch. He bites back a groan, brain scrambling to remember that part about debts, and grips Connor's wrist, which barely budges.

"Hold on there a sec-", he pants.

”Oh." Connor freezes immediately, eyes locked on to Hank’s movements, gauging his reaction, searching for any obvious wrongs. The blue circle at his temple spins and spins. He looks a little guilty. ”Am I coming on too strong? I’ll slow down-”

Hank internally berates himself for reacting so hurriedly. "I was just thinking..." He mulls over the words, trying his best not to sound awkward, or weirdly charitable, or plain dirty.

”Maybe we could focus on you, this time around?" Hank pulls up Connor's hand to hold it gently, blunt fingertips stroking Connor's knuckles. ”Feels like I’m hogging the uh, spotlight, a bit sometimes. You know?”

Inexplicably, Connor laughs in response, a huffed snort and a cocky dimple in his cheek.

Hank shifts awkwardly on the bed. ”What’s so funny about that?” he grumbles, suddenly self-concious in his efforts to take the lead, return favors and all that. Connor looks up at him.

”There’s really not much to focus on." For some reason, he looks a perfect blend of frustrated and confused. "Surely you must have noticed by now how I'm not equipped with any sort of genitalia, Hank." Connor says it like he's explaining the concept of the sky being blue.

"Well, there's gotta be something we could do for you, right?" Hank tries, feeling more and more sheepish by the minute.

”Well," Connor draws out his reply on a long hum, and his LED staggers for a bit. "There's several stores in town that have the necessary upgrades in stock, but none of them are open for customers right now. We could visit them tomorrow, make a day trip out of it, if you'd like."

Hank's mind reels at the absurd thought of the two of them strolling through some seedy shop, cart in hand, picking out a set of junk for Connor like it was a new lamp for their living room. He clears his throat. "Sounds like a wonderful way to spend an afternoon, Connor, but right now I'm thinking of something a little more.... Well, right now."

"If you've got the patience to wait for a possible online order to go through processing and shipment, we could get back to this in a couple hours or so." He runs his fingers across Hank's chest, tone dropping a bit lower in an effort to bring back the mood. "I doubt you have that patience right now though, Hank."

The lilt in Connor’s voice almost gets to him, but Hank soldiers through it.

"I'm a bottomless ocean of perseverance right now, Connor.” Hank considers the fallout from what he’s about to suggest next, but decides to go along anyway. ”I know there’s people out there who... make do without the, the upgrades. You’re not the least bit interested in that?”

A beat passes. Connor’s hand on Hank’s chest stills. He tries his best not to think about the endless list of implications running through Connor’s high-speed mind right this second. Thankfully, Connor’s voice breaks the silence.

”Then, in that case, you know how it works." Connor leans back into the pillows, looking a bit frustrated. "It'd be far from the conventional way of doing things. I don't think you'd like it."

"Well, I’m willing to try. What's _your_ 'conventional' look like?” Hank shifts to move off of Connor, leaning his weight on his elbow. ”C'mon, throw me a bone here."

That earns Hank a look. ”I don’t see the need for me to explain anything if you’ve done all this research. But sure, I’ll humor you.” Connor huffs, not sparing the sarcasm he seemed to have come pre-programmed with from the start.

"Every android, no matter what model, possesses the basic knowledge of the concept of sexual intercourse. However, only the kind meant for companionship comes equipped with the ah, proper hardware." His tone is edging dangerously close to the variant that Hank has come to call ’condescending user manual’. ”Seeing as we can't physically procreate, there's really no need for variants that aren't meant to simulate that specific aspect of human relations to sit around with parts they won't use. It's not very cost-effective," Connor grins, wryly.

"Jeez, I know that, you don't have t-" Hank mumbles, but he’s promptly cut off as Connor rattles on.

"And with me being a detective model, designed to investigate, negotiate and navigate high-risk scenarios, I suppose my set of genitals fell even further down the list. Still, I've made do, don't you think? I've come to learn quite a bit about policework during my time at the DPD. And the last time I checked, the crime scene procedural protocols didn't require any of the officers using their genitals."

Instantly, Hank fought off a mental image that was as inappropriate as it was hilarious, to attempt to backpedal on his words. "Of course not, I'm just saying-" He mulls over the next words carefully. "There's gotta be some way to, for us to make it work, for you, I mean."

Deviancy had granted Connor the possibility to fully explore the wide scope of emotion that went together with being human, as well as the voice modulation and facial expression that came with the territory. A form of expression he'd all but mastered was the deadpan. Now, he put it to work as flawlessly as usual, to calmly declare:

"Sorry, Hank. I'm afraid they didn't keep my hypothetical sex-life in mind when they built me to be real good at solving crime."

The harsh, red light from Connor’s temple stings Hank’s eyes. Even without it, Hank can pick up on the waves of guilt and frustration radiating off of Connor, dripping from his words.

Hank feels it mirrored in himself. What had started out like a weird settling of a debt obviously caught on something bigger. Of course it’s not his place to prod like this, least of all with the delicacy of someone trying to perform open-heart surgery with boxing gloves on.

He feels like sinking through the mattress. Instead, he swallows the lump in his throat.

”I’m sorry, Connor,” he manages, voice strained. ”I didn’t mean to push you.”

Connor seems to be stuck in a thousand-mile stare, the low light of the bedside lamp reflected weakly in his irises.

He remembers Connor’s concern from earlier, how reassuring it had been. ”Is it alright if I touch you?” he tries, searching for Connor’s gaze.

Connor nods stiffly, no emotion passing over his features.

Testingly, Hank raises a hand to cup Connor’s cheek, his skin firm like marble.

”Hey, Connor, look at me,” he murmurs, thumb moving gently against Connor’s still face. ”We don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

He can hear something whirring away deep in Connor’s insides. His LED flickers from orange, to yellow, back and forth. Then he sinks down, suddenly, leaning limply into Hank’s touch.

When Hank moves his other hand to thumb at Connor’s cheek, his face pulls into a strained expression, before it’s shoved against Hank’s shoulder. As a reflex, Hank’s arms settles around him, soothingly. When Connor turns his head, a curl of his hair tickles Hank’s cheek.

"It's not that I don't want to." Connor's voice is small against his neck, a warm puff of air. "I just don't know what to expect when it’s me, with this body. It’s... difficult. I struggled to think of fitting moment to bring it up to you as organically as possible.”

Hank thinks to interject, to ask what sort of help he himself be able to give anyway. But he hates the thought of interrupting such a delicate matter of reasoning. So he keeps his mouth shut and lets Connor continue.

”I figured I was either going to work out an approach by myself, or wait until I got the hardware upgrade." Connor adds, quietly: ”Whichever came first,”

Something in Hank’s mind clicks into place. _Could it just be a matter of inexperience?_ He moves against Connor, hands drifting down to rub at his shoulder, gentle as he could. When Connor shifts along with him, fingers combing softly through Hank’s hair, he feels a warmth spread through his chest.

”We can stop for the night, if you want.” He pulls Connor closer, nothing in the action save for plain affection. ”No questions asked. Just sleep, or whatever it is you do.” Hank can’t help but grin.

Connor squirms a little against him, fingers worrying at a gray strand of Hank’s hair, twirling it again and again. One of his many increasingly human mannerisms. He clears his throat, or makes a sound like it anyway.

”I _do_ want to continue, though.” Connor licks his lips, almost unnoticably, still fidgeting. His voice is too low for Hank to register, at first. ”I could... show you, maybe?”

”Oh. Oh, well, sure," Hank feels a pang in his heart and a hot tug in his gut at the same time. Still, there’s something nagging at him. ”Just don’t do it out of some- some weird obligation to me,” he adds, fixing Connor’s gaze. ”You don’t owe me anything.”

”Don’t worry, I know.” There’s a spark in Connor’s eyes then, even if his hands shake a little as they move down to unbutton his shirt.

The air feels tense, charged with something a bit heavier than plain lust. Hank feels cornered and excited all at once; wary of misstepping, mindful of his words. Still, he makes an attempt at clearing the air.

”What you got to work with, then?” Too late, he realises he’d sounded like a cheery helpdesk employee at some hip tech shop.

Connor doesn’t seem to pick up on it, however. Instead, he keeps at it, unbuttoning the last stretch of his shirt, leaving it on to wriggle out of his briefs.He leans back onto the pillows with his lips pursed slightly. When he finally parts his lean legs, Hank can’t help the way his mouth falls open, just a tiny bit, at the sight.

Between Connor’s thighs was... nothing. A hairless mound, the same creamy color as the rest of his skin, and, like everyone said - smooth as a doll’s. Almost weirdly giddy, Hank notes that one of Connor’s many moles had been put on there as well, near the crook of where crotch met thigh. Although he couldn’t for the life of him explain why, it was very erotic.

Connor moves his hand to his abdomen, a hint of self-conciousness in the faint twitches of his fingers. Realising he hasn’t made any sort of reaction on his part, Hank clears his throat.

”Wow. So what’s the, uh- How do you...” Hank searches his mind for the right terms, drawing a blank. Saying ’wow’ out loud should’ve been enough to put a pin in this right then and there. Connor, helpfully enough, provides him with an interruption once more.

"Even without the equipment, the area around it is still equipped with small sensors. And if you play around with the sensitivity, it's enough to make it-" Connor's hand drifts down to stroke testingly at himself, like he was trying to shift and part something that wasn’t there. ”- receptive.”

Hank follows the movements with a heavy gaze, completely mesmerised. His dick twitches with interest, slowly coming back to life again.

”So you can still feel it?” Hank asks lamely, breath heavy on his words.

Connor makes a small sound. "Yes. I've been testing out the limitations on my own, to gather a sort of empirical evidence, a frame of reference to work with when eventually we'd... well-" He cuts himself off, like he's caught himself saying something he shouldn't, eyes suddenly cast down.

It takes a moment until Hank's mind picks up on what Connor is insinuating. His mind whites out for all of two seconds before he thinks to say:

"What, you mean like... jacking off?"

Connor coughs. Shyness is a good look on him, Hank thought distractedly - the way his brows knitted together and his otherwise keen eyes tried their best to look anywhere other than Hank's face. Hank was sure Connor would be blushing, if he could. The thought was exhilarating in ways he wasn't prepared to examine just yet.

Beneath him, Connor made an strained sound, his free hand moving up to rub at his neck in an adorably shy gesture. "It's a... crude term, and not entirely accurate. But, I suppose that's the closest word for it," Connor’s voice went low on a mumble at the last part, obviously embarrassed by now.

Hank, on the other hand, was lost in the thought of Connor stealing a moment alone to himself; pants around his ankles, slender fingers dipping down into his briefs, trying his best to keep his voice down as he explored his sleek body, biting down on the softest sounds, maybe even thinking of-

He’s interrupted by another artificial clearing of a throat. Connor looked to be smack-dab on the razor-thin edge between apologetic and completely mortified. ”I completely understand if it's too much or too wei-”

"Could you show me how you do it?" Hank interrupts hotly. He hadn't meant for his voice to come out so rough. 

Connor blinks a couple times. ”Oh. Oh, alright.” He ducks his head a little. "It could be like another... empirical self-test, I suppose." Connor's voice trails off, tinged with mirth as well as a hint of nervousness. "Although I think you’d use another word for it."

With no preamble, his hand trails down to rest on his crotch. The slow slide looks a little clumsy, like he was trying to press at soft flesh that wasn’t there. With nothing to shift, part or pull at, Hank tried his best not to let the disconnect of the action overshadow what he saw in front of him.

Still, it seemed to be doing something to Connor. He looks focused, lips tight in a thin line, forehead creasing on an adorable frown. ”I’ve got my sensitivity set to about 58 percent right now.” He presses down with one finger and gasps, hips stuttering with the motion. ”I don’t want it too high too soon- What with the risk of... overheating, I mean-”

Connor was usually a right pro at multi-tasking, but right now he was having trouble putting proper sentences together. The urge to see more of that, to watch Connor fall apart completely, washes over Hank then. He crowds closer, mouth in line with Connor’s ear, getting a good view of Connor hard at work with pleasuring himself in front of a very encouraging audience.

"Keep talking." Hank's other hand moves down to grip Connor's wrist, feeling the hard material beneath the skin shift with his eager movements. ”How's it feel?"

Connor’s answering hum is stuttering, strained. "It feels- odd. But good.”

”Yeah?” Hank’s mind races, overwhelmed with the single goal of making Connor feel as good as he possibly could. He lets go of Connor’s wrist to move his fingers further down, fitting Connor’s entire hand in his palm, pressing down gently. He revels in the jerky movements of Connor’s hand, and gets a shallow groan in return.

"Back then, when you blew me," Hank is almost embarrassed at how low his voice drops, stumbling at the words. He licks his lips, tries again. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself, uh, quite a bit. At least from where I was sitting, I mean."

As if re-experiencing the sensation at the memory, a full-body shudder runs through Connor’s frame. His mouth falls slack, bottom lip shining with moisture. The small moan he lets out rings through Hank’s ear as Connor starts talking again.

"It did feel good. It's like the sensation was there, only it wouldn't... settle anywhere.” He breaks off on a wet gasp, hand jerking in Hank’s grip. ”It'll feel different with the upgrade, I think, maybe. Right now it’s just running haywire through my- _oh._ ”

Hank presses a kiss to Connor's cheek as he feels around, slipping between Connor's fingers to push at the soft mound himself. Connor moans sharply at the contact, spreading his thighs wider, just a bit. The thought of all this trust, this eagerness and compliance makes Hank’s head spin.

"Don't stop talking." He mouths down Connor’s chin, a hint of teeth against his neck. That gets him a wet moan. ”What’s your sensitivity at now?”

”I-it’s at 67 percent.” Connor tries his best to enunciate every syllable, obviously straining with the effort. ”I-It’s so much to process. I don’t know how to-” Connor’s voice is almost slurring now, a hint of static at the edge of it. His hips are twitching, rocking back against Hank’s fingers, like he’s fucking back on them. A vivid image flashes by in Hank’s mind, and he feels his cock filling out even more at the thought.

”Tell me what kind of upgrade you want, Connor.” It took a lot of effort on Hank’s end to make his voice sound as unwavering as possible.

”I don’t know, I do-” Connor groans and shifts his grip, his right hand locked around Hank’s wrist instead, twitching squeezes around Hank’s ruthless pace.

”Oh, but you’ve been thinking about it, right?” He felt like a dirty old man, whispering this shit, and yet with the way Connor squirmed and panted beneath him, he found he didn’t care. ”All those times you ’self-tested’, you thought about us trying it out, didn’t you?”

”I- I did." His answer comes immediately, paired with a firm twitch of his hips against Hank’s unrelenting fingers. ”I did, yes, every time, just-”

The unabashed admission makes something in Hank’s gut flinch, and without meaning to he lets out a groan. He is fully hard now, struggling to keep his cool, but also desperate to hear Connor give the details.

”Was it me fucking you?” He licks his lips and presses down two fingers sharply at the last words, Connor yelping hotly at the touch. ”Or maybe the other way around?”

"Hank- ” Connor’s voice was a low whine now, eyes pinched shut. The pleading urgency of it all made Hank’s toes curl.

He’d completely taken over the movements now, Connor’s hands instead switching betwen gripping at the back of Hank’s neck, fisting in the sheets, fingers scrabbling over Hank’s sweaty back.

”Don’t stop, don’t, Hank-” Connor's pleas breaks off on a hiccupy moan.

His hair has fallen out of its side-sweep, getting more and more unkempt as Connor throws his head against the pillow. His hand is a vice around Hank’s wrist now, grip almost hard enough to bruise. The thought of the eventual mark spurs Hank on, his hips snapping up against Connor’s side, cock rubbing against him, definitely hard enough for Connor to feel it.

”You look so good right now, Connor,” Hank rumbles into his ear, and he means it, with every fiber of his being. His wrist is burning with the effort, but he’d rather lose his fucking hand than stop what he’s doing right now.

Connor moans his name, brokenly, one last time. Then, before Hank manages to say anything filthier, Connor’s body tenses, thighs twitching wildly, his mouth slack on a sound that won’t come out. Finally, he slumps down with a punched-out sound, legs tangled in the bedsheets.

Meanwhile, rolled onto his side, Hank is panting like he'd run a mile, sweating like he had too. His hand strokes soothingly across Connor’s thigh, still trembling with exhaustion.

 _He’s not even bothering to keep up his damn breathing_ , Hank thinks with a small panic. He knows nothing’s wrong, per se, but the stillness freaks him out a little. He nudges Connor, very gently. ”You OK there?”

At the sound of Hank’s voice, Connor starts, looking over at him through lidded eyes. It seems to take a while for him to process it - a glance at the throbbing yellow at Connor’s temple fills Hank with a weird sense of pride, even if his wrist is sore.

"Did that do it for you?" Hank asks, daring a smirk. It feels unnecessary to ask, but the stubborn, proud part of him wanted to hear the confirmation for himself.

Connor lifts his head feebly, pushing away his ruffled fringe to look at Hank.

"I... think it did. I almost overheated at one point, though,” Connor’s voice is breathless on a small laugh. ”I’ll run a diagnostic." The canary yellow of Connor's LED pulsates in the darkness of the bedroom. It shifts back to a trembling blue as Connor rolls around, flat on his back.

"I dont know how to describe it. It's enjoyable, but a little frustrating. I'm able to feel it, but towards the end it's like it-" His forehead is folded in a thoughtful frown. "Like it... plateaus? It’s not really like finishing, in all the senses of the word.” Connor huffs, making the chestnut curl on his forehead bounce with the force.

Hank considers this. ”You mean you’re not, like, completely there yet?”

”I don’t know if I can be, at this point. It’s still very nice, though.”

Hank looks down as he strokes Connor's thigh, feels how clammy his palms are against the marble skin. He feels his heart start beating a bit faster, then braves the question. "So maybe... you want to keep going? See if we can get you even closer?"

Connor rolls back to face him, smiling impishly. ”Only if you’re feeling up to it.”

"Oh, you know I am."

As they kiss, Connor spares no time to lick into Hank’s mouth and suck on his tongue noisily. Hank is suddenly very aware of how hard he is. This time, when Connor cups his dick, Hank can do nothing but groan into Connor’s mouth and rub against his firm palm.

When Hank finally gives up and breaks away for air, a thin string of spit connects their lips. He holds Connor’s cheek again, leaning their foreheads together in a tired but loving gesture. They share the same air, breathed in strained huffs on Hank’s end.

In front of him, Connor’s eyes are gleaming, and the post-release sluggishness seems instantly washed away.

”How do you want to do it, Hank?” Connor’s free hand, the one not busy with kneading Hank’s cock through his boxers eagerly, roams over every uncovered inch of Hank’s body. Hank swears to himself. _Of course he’d have an impossibly short refractionary period._

For a moment, he feels pinned in place again. Then, Hank thinks back to a bedroom experiment he'd done with his ex-wife, very successfully, all those years ago. Maybe with the sensitivity knocked up a few percent, they could both...

Hank clears his throat and decides to give it a go.

"You wanna try something?" He feels his heart throb when Connor leans into his touch, nuzzling into his broad palm like a puppy.

"Sure, Hank." Connor's eyes are positively burning with eagerness now. Hank is sharply reminded of the hand currently on his dick as Connor gives it a firm squeeze, making Hank’s head roll forward again on a groan.

Hank’s fingers scramble to push Connor’s hand away, not wanting to end this quite so soon. "OK. Alright,” he manages, and huffs again as he gets up on his knees, bedsprings creaking with the motion. He feels like he’s already out of breath. _This is gonna be hell on your back, old man._

”So," Hank shifts, and tugs helpfully at Connor to let him change positions. "You gotta be on your back for this. Scootch a little closer. And lift your legs.”

Connor’s body is unbelievably malleable in Hank’s shaky grip. The thought of all the ways they could put that flexibility to good use makes Hank shiver.

When they’ve both shifted into position, Hank moves back to pull down his boxers. They bundle up at the middle of his thighs, and he can feel Connor’s heavy gaze on his cock. It twitches at the attention. Hank’s mouth is a little dry again, and he swallows to will it to moisten up. "We'll stop if it feels weird."

"Of course," Connor echoes, voice singed with brazen eagerness.

Hank shifts Connor’s legs so his feet are a bit to the side, his calves grazing Hank’s ribs. Hank gets up on his knees, feels his sagging gut bump against the back of Connor’s thighs. He swallows. ”Now you just uh, press your thighs together, like-”

Moving just like he knew what to expect, Connor flexes his lean thighs helpfully. "I'm familiar with the position, Hank. You're going to fuck my thighs."

Hank is caught unaware by the harsh word, his face immediately heating up. He swears in turn, hips bucking aimlessly, dribbling a couple thick drops of precome onto the back of Connor's thigh.

He coughs once, twice, very embarrassed. ”Yeah. That I am. Crank up that sensitivity for me, please.”

Connor complies soundlessly, twitching a little in Hank’s grip. Hank holds Connor’s ankles in one hand and grips his own drooling cock with the other, then bites his bottom lip as he moves, glans bumping against the cleft of Connor’s ass on the way in. Connor’s breath hitches in response, eyes transfixed by the slick slide of Hank’s cock as he bottoms out.

Then Connor flexes his thighs, testingly, and Hank’s hips stutter, rubbing firmly against Connor’s smooth mound. Hank can feel him twitch against him in response, hears the small ”oh” he lets out.

 _It’s damn near too much_ , Hank thinks frantically.

The firm press of Connor’s muscles is just as tight as Hank pulls back, but still a little too dry. So Hank spits in his hand. He notices Connor flinching at the sound, mouth falling open curiously. _That’s something to remember for next time._ Hank then slicks his fist over his swollen head, once, twice, until it’s wet enough.

When he’s slides back in again, he can’t hold back the guttural groan that rumbles from deep in his chest. Beneath him, Connor braces one hand on the mattress and lets the other stroke along Hank’s side, fingers scrabbling for purchase as Hank starts thrusting in earnest.

”How much?” Hank grunts.

”E-eighty-four percent,” Connor stutters, and Hank responds with another sharp thrust.

They find a rhythm - spit, sweat and precome helps the slippery slide as Hank fucks deeper into the cleft of Connor’s thighs. The sound of his skin slapping wetly against Connor’s echoes filthily through the room, rings in Hank’s ears.

It’s wet, hot, and fucking perfect.

Connor seems just as into it too, hips shifting to thrust back in time with Hank’s movements.  
”Does it feel good, Hank?” he moans softly, breath almost shrill on the upswing of the question. Hank can do nothing but grip Connor’s ankles tighter and groan in approval.

It’s maddeningly tight. Hank can feel his head getting clouded, thoughts too fuzzy to shape into anything other than pure, primal _want_. It was as if nothing else mattered save for the way Connor moved beneath him, the hot slickness of his thighs clamped around Hank’s cock. If this was too much, how would it be later on when they-

It’s like Hank’s brain short-circuits with that thought. He wants nothing else than to let Connor know just how much, how badly he needs. He licks his lips, and tries.

"Can’t wait until we can do this for real, Connor.” He groans on a particularly tight stroke, hips stuttering. 

Connor gasps wetly in response, his breath hitching now, hiccuping with every single thrust of Hank’s hips. His eyes are wet, holding Hank’s gaze hotly, like he’s taking in every word. Spurred on, Hank keeps babbling in time with his thrusts, getting sloppier.

”Gonna keep you in here for days. Find out all the ways I can fuck you silly. You want that?”

Connor nods lazily, mouth slack, lips parted on a soft 'o', his hands tensing on Hank's side. He uses the purchase to thrust back eagerly against Hank.

”Wanna go down on you for hours, make you scream." He's sure he's slurring now, spitting out lines straight out of some porno, but he can’t help himself. "Bet you'll taste so damn good."

He feels a dribble of drool fall down into his beard, but he finds he doesn’t care.

”Wanna be inside you so fucking bad, Connor” he groans instead. ”So _fucking_ bad.” He draws out the curse on a groan, feels Connor twitch and squirm beneath him. The bed is creaking dangerously with every thrust. 

Beneath him, Connor can do nothing but to moan Hank’s name again and again, thighs flexing gorgeously in time with Hank’s heavy thrusts. His hands slide forward to grip at the swollen head of Hank’s cock every time it slides through the slick passage, fingers rubbing at the slit with every forceful thrust. His eyes never once leave Hank’s sweaty and no doubt beet-red face, watching him with a reverence that Hank had never been subjected to before. He felt his heart throb, weirdly affectionate even in the middle of the hottest action he’d gotten in years.

"Are you getting close, Hank?" Connor’s voice is wavering, bottom lip shining wet with spit, and Hank thinks of licking it, biting it, doing anything to feel it against him. He wants to lean down, but a more urgent, primal part of him flushes out the thought, shifts all his focus on keeping up the pace, of fucking in between those lean, strong thighs.

”I want to watch your face when you come," Connor whines, then takes his index and middle fingers from Hanks cock into his own mouth, tasting Hank and moaning with breathless abandon. The sight is almost enough to make Hank deliver on the request right then and there. He picks up the pace, leaning down with his full weight on Connor now, close to bending him in half. He’s straining with the effort, sweat running in his eyes and dripping down on Connor’s chest.

One of Connor’s hands is braced at the headboard now, straining to keep his head from bumping into it with the force of the thrusts. The other is at the small of Hank’s back, scrabbling to grip at the sweaty skin. When it slides down to grab Hank’s ass and urge him to move even faster, he can’t help the guttural groan he lets out. Hank’s hips are snapping wildly, no real sense of finesse as he keeps on thrusting, quick and hard. A familiar tightness settles in his gut and he knows he’s close, chases the sensation as he moves faster still.

”Fuck, Connor.” Hank’s got one hand free now, the other busy with steadying himself on top of Connor. He presses his thumb past Connor’s fingers, feels the wet heat. Immediately, Connor runs his tongue over Hank’s finger wickedly slow, cradling it like he'd done with Hank's cock just a couple weeks ago. The blood roaring in his ears is deafening. ” _Fuckkk_ , Connor.”

With a dangerous gleam in his eyes, Connor grabs at Hank’s cock to press his thumb under the head, then shifts and flexes his thighs, pressing tighter than ever before.

Then Hank is coming with a throaty groan, white streaks shooting across Connor’s stomach, his chest, some of it even hitting his chin. Connor keeps clamping down on his cock, pressing and pulling to milk out the last of Hank’s orgasm, until he’s trembling with the overstimulation. He sags down, chest heaving, blinking away the sweat in his eyes to look at the brilliant fucking creature beneath him.

Connor is a picture of complete debauchery, with his hair a ruffled mess and stripes of come all over his mole-speckled skin. Something in Hank burns at the sight, and with the final bit of strength he can muster, he shifts down until his face is level with Connor’s groin. He presses his tongue flat against the slick mound, tasting himself and groaning Connor’s name brokenly against that damn mole closest to where crotch met thigh.

Above him, Connor is moaning, panting, no doubt deliciously overstimulated. Both his hands are buried in Hank’s hair now, pulling at it with a restrained urgency. Hank felt a sharp pang of lingering sensation, and his cock gave one final spurt against the sweat-soaked sheets.

He rolls over on his back, chest still heaving with the effort to breathe.

”Holy shit. That was-” He hadn’t touched a cigarette in years, but this exact moment of post-coital bliss seemed like it only needed a slow column of smoke to feel complete. All cheesy, like in the movies. ”Jesus Christ, Connor.”

”It was, indeed." Next to him, Connor is smiling lazily, cheeks dimpling adorably still. He stirs and pulls at Hank’s arm as it lay slung around his shoulders, so he can lean his head on it instead. Hank leans in to press a kiss at Connor’s temple, lips catching on the edge of his LED. It felt intimate. Secure. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in a long time.

”It’s too early to go to bed, Hank," Connor murmurs, just as Hank had settled into a good pose. He’s a little ashamed with how beat he is, post-coital haze slowing his every move and thought. 

”’M just gonna take a little nap."

”You should at least do something about this before you do." Hank cracks one eye open to look at where Connor’s gesturing with his hand, at the specks of come and sweat on his torso. The sight makes his dick twitch weakly with interest. _Stop it. You won’t be getting up anytime soon anyway._. 

Groggily, Hank reaches for Connor’s discarded shirt and wipes a few weak strokes at the mess on Connor’s abdomen. In turn, Connor makes a face, and finishes the rest of the cleanup himself. The stained shirt lands somewhere on the floor, and Connor pulls up the cover over them both.

”Let’s do something with those leftovers when you wake up,” Connor states tiredly in passing, as he settles down in Hank’s arms. ”Maybe a stir-fry, or a stew? What would you like more?" 

Hank was struggling to stay up now, eyelids dangerously close to slipping shut entirely. All he could do was hum in response, biting back a comment about Connor’s peculiar approach to bedroom talk.

”Also,” The suggestive smirk is back in Connor’s voice again. Hank hears it plain as day, even with his brain capacity being in the tens now. ”We’ve got some online shopping to do. Maybe we’ll send an application for some days off, too. If you were being serious with all the things you said earlier.”

Too tired to even be embarrassed by the proclamations prompted by his horny brain, Hank just sighs. ”Please wake me up in 30 minutes, Connor.” He adds a slurred: ”And I’ll call Fowler first thing.”

”Got it.”

Before falling asleep, he feels Connor’s lips press firmly against his scraggly cheek.

He dreams of weirdly shaped lamps cluttering his living room.

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted my file and had to rewrite this frantically in a haze at 5 in the morning. I also got to write the phrase "dripping android" finally so all in all we're at a solid 0+- here.


End file.
